Completely Undeserved.

Last day of classes, and we never even think about seeing 80 degrees? A sign from the gods, sure and certain. Drag somebody off towards the volcano, please. Somebody who has not had much of the sex. Throw him in. See if we can't get a few more days like this.

And we can: The fancies say cooler than it seems like we deserve through the end of the week, a little rain here and there, and definitely not the July we were getting two weeks ago during the nephewstravaganza. A little April here in May. Is it me, or are the months a little out of whack?

Last day of classes, last day of classes. I need it. My brainpan's pretty well emptied out. I have drawn the narrative triangle as many times as it can be drawn. I have explained the line between sweet and sickly sweet once too often. I have begged for plot too much, have begged for character more than that. I am ready for the space in between, for a landscape with nobody on it doing nothing. No plot, no character. Turns out the kids were right all along. We don't need either of 'em. Easier to end the day with a cool breeze drifting in through the kitchen windows, a train whistle drifting in behind that. But then that's plot, isn't it? That train's headed from and to, no? And who's aboard? Shit and shit. Plot and character. There ain't no way to hide your cryin' eyes. Or is it lyin'? It's one of them truncated-g words.

I am spent. Lo, I am slain. Give me the morning, please, the porch and the dog and only seven thousand conferences to prepare for. Give me sun and upper fifties. Give me reason to wear a flannel shirt once more, and the reason to peel out of it before the coffee's done. Give me that and I don't need liberty or death. Or cash on the barrelhead. Or shelter.

Train's not whistling any more, but you can still hear it fine from here.